


Redbull Ad Infinitum

by Bad_Wolf



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: one shots, someone help joan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-11
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-10-30 17:28:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10881555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bad_Wolf/pseuds/Bad_Wolf
Summary: Joan comes home to find thirteen cans of canned energy drinks opened on her kitchen table.





	1. Chapter 1

Not only had the vague and frankly condescending emails been a bit much, but now she was certain there was an orgy going on within the brownstone where her new client was living.

 _‘Be warned that my son will try to frighten you off with unusual tactics_.’

Joan took a deep breath, this might be one of the tactics, even though it was a 6pm on a Saturday afternoon. The lascivious bedroom sounds and terrible techno music stopped abruptly and the front door crashed open. Joan quickly climbed several of the steps up to the front door, but instead of a man, a woman who was _clearly_ a prostitute stumbled out. Three quarters naked, all quarters drunk. Joan took a step back, startled at the amount of fur it took to leave someone’s body suggestively naked without actually being at risk for public indecency.

Her client stumbled out of the door, his hands grasping greedily for the woman’s hips. He pressed himself against the woman for a second, his lips on her cheek, “Same time tomorrow.”

_Oh hell no._

“Excuse me, are you-“

Her client- almost six foot, non-descript brown hair and eyes, half-naked body covered in tattoos- held up a finger and _shushed_ her. Joan bristled.

“Sure thing honey,” said the woman, her eyes flickered to Joan and she smirked before tottering down the steps to a waiting taxi.

 Sherlock Holmes, her client. Finally turned to look at her, “Who’re you?” He looked out of it, fuzzy and dreamy.

 _His father is not going to be happy about this_. Joan stuck her gloved hand out, “Joan Watson. I am your sober companion. Your father contracted me as part of you-” She gave the old brownstone a once-over, “deal.”

“Ah.” said Sherlock, straightening up, he squinted at her. Joan squinted back.

“You’re not really drunk,” said Joan, brushing past Sherlock on her way to the front door, “You’re acting drunk. But you’re not drunk. Game’s up. Get back inside so we can talk. And-” Joan stopped, turning on her heel to look him in the eye, “The next time I have to deal with _that_ , without warning, I will make sure that the place next door is turned into a daycare. Do you understand?”

Sherlock’s eyes flickered to the redstone next door where a large and cheerful -For Sale- sign was planted on the thick stone railing that faced the street. “I don’t see how that’s possible,” he sniffed with disdain that only someone who grew up rich and British could muster while half-naked and pretending to be drunk. Joan was impressed despite being angry.

“It’s a nice street. Quiet. In an up and coming neighborhood. There are three schools within ten miles. I know lots of people with kids and a few enterprising teenagers and young adults. It wouldn’t be _that_ difficult.” She didn’t see the flicker of interest that sparked and just as quickly died in Sherlock’s eyes. She strode into the brownstone, wrinkling her nose at the smell.

 

That was four months ago.

Joan hummed as she turned the key to the brownstone, it was difficult considering the food she was juggling in her arms.

“Oh good, you’re back, let me help. I went to get coffee.” Sherlock yanked the door open and scooped some of the bags from her, “Oh you went to the _other_ place to get my favorite soup.”

“Yeah, well it wasn’t that far away and I know you’re struggling with the case.”

Sherlock’s eyes did that weird flicker that Joan knew meant he was quietly pleased. “Much appreciated,” said Sherlock as he cracked open the styrofoam container and tipped it back into his mouth.

Joan closed her eyes tightly and sighed, she tried controlling her face, she really did.

“Something wrong?” asked Sherlock thickly through a mouthful of meat and noodle.

“Did you stop to think that what you’re holding is a _large_ container of soup?”

“Noted.” said Sherlock, turning to his out of control conspiracy board on the wall, “Much appreciated.” He repeated.

“ _I_ wanted some of that soup,” said Joan, crossing her arms.

Sherlock looked down at the styrofoam container and then at Joan, he held the cup out abruptly, like a child would when told they must share. Jerky movements because of the unexpected request, but without reserve.

Sherlock was no child and he was smarter than the average human. Joan scowled, “No, I don’t want it _now._ ”

“Then why say anything at all?” Sherlock looked like he was trying to rewind through their conversation.

“Stop. Just forget it.”

Sherlock shrugged and did as told, tipping more soup into his mouth. Joan grumbled and went into the kitchen to be confronted with about thirteen cans of various energy drinks. One of Sherlocks’ experiments? She picked one of the cans up and regarded the ingredients with suspicion, terrible for your heart and nerves. Good thing neither her nor-

There was the distinct crack of a can being opened in the next room, Joan’s eyes widened.

She strode back into the parlor/living room and gaped as Sherlock chugged a green can, cracked open a tiny bottle of energy shot and tossed that back too. He noticed her staring in terrified horror.

“What? What is it?”

“ _Sherlock_ , please tell me _you_ didn’t drink all of those energy drinks!”

He blinked at her twice, “I did. I know it’s a mess, I will clean it up after-“ He waved at the wall with their current case, “Either that or Mrs. Hudson will get it in the morning.”

“That’s not-“ Joan retorted, “I’m not-“

Sherlock cracked another can open and put it to his lips.

“Stop!” squawked Joan. Sherlock gave a small smile.

“Don’t worry, I’m drinking water. I know these things are very sugary-“

“You’re going to give yourself a _heart attack_ ,” said Joan, snatching the can from his grasp.

Sherlock frowned, “Huh. I was wondering why my heart was going to 200 when I took a small single-stick break with Bob.”

“200!” said Joan in amazement, “Stop moving! Stop thinking. Just- stop!” She ran upstairs and snatched up her stethoscope and blood pressure cuff. Sherlock looked dazed when she descended the stairs, “200!” She repeated.

“It’s not permanent,” said Sherlock , taking a seat, “It’s like coffee.”

“You’ve been drinking coffee too?”

Sherlock shrugged, “Cuban coffee works best.”

Joan stuck a thermometer into Sherlock’s mouth and told him to be _quiet._


	2. Middle School Fads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone asks for another ridiculous form of payment.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this.” Joan refused to touch the stuff, she wore gloves and kept her nose in a perpetual wrinkle. She finished mixing the last of it and scooped it into the tub. “This is _never_ coming off, you know. I hope Everyone is going to get us a new bath tub.”

Sherlock refused to come into the bathroom at all until the last possible second, Sherlock would never admit to hiding. But he was hiding.

“Unless you want Everyone request questionable actions for said bathtub I would insist on not asking.” Sherlock edged into the doorway, wrapped in a terrycloth robe. It was Joan’s. It _used_ to be Joan’s.

“You can keep that,” she flicked her wrist at Sherlock, “I don’t want it anymore.” She shoved the empty buckets of glue and unused bag of borax to the side.

“Make sure the camera angle is exact. We do not need more exposure than necessary.” Sherlock peeked at the laptop angled towards the bathtub.

Looking like a resigned prisoner walking towards the gallows, Joan checked the laptop. To Sherlock’s surprise she tapped something out and hit send.

“What did you write?”

“Everyone asked me why you weren’t helping, I told them you were hiding, and that I felt bad for you so I let you.”

Sherlock scoffed and curled his bare toes, “Tell Everyone they’ll get what they paid for and not an inch more.”

“They can hear you.”

“Not an inch more!” Sherlock’s voice boomed in the tiny bathroom. Joan sighed and stripped the gloves off, throwing them into an empty glue bucket.

“You’re on, Vana White.”

“Unless that is a famous stripper,” sniffed Sherlock, stepping into the bathroom, but still out of view, “I don’t want to hear it.” He began untying the terrycloth robe, “Do you mind?”

“No,” said Joan, “I don’t. You can continue.”

Sherlock paused.

“Don’t be a prude,” said Joan, biting back a smile, although it was useless, Sherlock definitely could see she was trying not to bust a gut, “You’ve seen me in my underwear. Your turn.”

Sherlock’s eyes skipped over to the screen, he bent to look at the chatlog, his neck stiff. “You keep giving Everyone fodder to use against us.”

“I’m trying to reassure you that the human body holds no secrets for me,” retorted Joan, still not laughing.

Sherlock jerked his head back, and Joan was glad to see he thought this was funny too. Small mercies.

Sherlock dropped the robe and gave the screen what amounted to his version of a sultry look. Then he stepped into the bathtub full of homemade floam.

The crackling and popping was overwhelming, it sent a repulsive shiver down Joan’s spine, “I’m out!”

His jaw locked, Sherlock shot her a mock glare, “Traitor.” He sunk into the floam until it reached his chin; with the uneasy grace of someone who was picky with the type of water used for his laundry, Sherlock grabbed a glob of the disgusting, crackling, shuddering mass and stuck it on his head.

“Happy?” His snark was borderline hysterical, which meant that to Everyone, he probably looked calm, if annoyed and aggrieved. Joan came back with a ten-gallon bucket, she connected a short hose to the sink and cranked it on.

“For afterwards,” said Joan and then fled again.

[Thanks for the show, Sherlock! Your payment will be delivered to your door in an hour.]

The chatroom disappeared and Sherlock quickly stood up, “Watson! Help me scrape these disgusting little balls off!”

“Not on your life!” came teh distant reply, “If you take one step out of that bathroom I’ll call Marcus so he can laugh at you.”

Sherlock grumbled, “Very well. I’ll clean this up by myself! Overwhelm my sensitive senses and miss something important in our next case.” Sherlock popped his head to one side and scrunched his eyes clsoed, listening. As soon as he heard light footsteps on the stairs he allowed himself a small smile and started scooping floam into the empty bags of Borax. “Watson. Good. I will fill the bags. You take them out to the curb.”

“I can do that.”

Sherlock heard the click of a camera.

“Did you just-“

“You look ridiculous.”

Sherlock’s mouth twisted into an almost-smile, something so close that Joan knew he was about to burst out laughing, he flicked his gaze up at Joan, but kept his face turned towards scooping mounds of floam into the tarp-bag. Joan coughed loudly and Sherlock’s knee jerked.

“Next time we have to deal with middle school fads,” said Sherlock, covered head to toe in fuschia-tinged floam and acid-green dots, “ _You_ will be the victim and I will be the paparazzo.”

Joan pursed her lips closed, “Not on your _life_.”


End file.
